The sky over Eryndor was a bruised purple, the kind that bled into the horizon and made even the familiar streets seem foreign. A thin crescent of a moon hung low, fractured and faint, casting ghostly silver light on the slick cobblestones. Lyra moved silently, her boots whispering against the wet stone as if even the city itself dared not announce her presence.
Kael followed, less fluidly than usual, weighed down not just by the physical strain of their flight from the Blood-Seer's sanctum but by the burden of the pact they had forged. It clung to them like a shadow, invisible yet undeniable. Every breath, every heartbeat, was a reminder of the bond they now shared with the Veil—and the consequences that bond carried.
"They're awake," Kael murmured, voice low, almost drowned by the whisper of the wind. "The Forgotten. I can feel them."
Lyra's grip tightened on her dagger, the metal biting into her palm. "I know. They sense the pact. They know we've called power that was never meant to be touched. And they're coming."
The streets seemed to narrow as they approached the Wounded Moon Plaza, a place long abandoned by the living and avoided even by the city's shadows. Here, the Veil's presence was strongest, the thin line between this world and the one beneath it stretched so taut that even the slightest disturbance caused ripples across reality.
Lyra stepped forward, scanning the perimeter. Statues of forgotten heroes and rulers loomed above, their eyes hollow, their faces frozen in expressions of eternal judgment. The air carried the scent of old blood and rot, a reminder that the plaza had once been a site of executions and sacrifices. The Forgotten had claimed it as their own, and now, beneath the fractured moon, they moved unseen among the ruins.
A sudden rustle made Lyra pivot sharply. Shadows shifted unnaturally, forming figures that were neither fully solid nor entirely spectral. They emerged from the darkness silently, their forms cloaked in ash and smoke, eyes glinting with unholy intelligence. Lyra counted at least a dozen, maybe more—the Forgotten had come for them.
Kael stepped beside her, drawing his blade. "We can't let them flank us. Remember the pact—the Veil will respond, but we control it only as long as we keep our focus."
Lyra nodded. The Veil stirred, the shadows around her fingers quivering like snakes. She could feel its hunger, the way it resonated with the anger and malice radiating from the Forgotten. For the first time, the power they had called forth felt alive, aware, and impatient.
The first figure lunged, its movements impossible, faster than human perception allowed. Lyra countered, dagger flashing, striking a blow that should have felled it—but the shadow's form wavered and reformed, as if mocking her. Each strike she made left a trail of crimson light in the air, a visible echo of the Veil's energy, but the shadow mirrored it, twisting, adapting.
Kael fought beside her, his blade slicing through smoke and darkness, each clash resonating with the pact's power. Their movements were synchronized, a dance of survival and strategy honed by the fires of the Trial, but even so, the Forgotten were relentless.
A deep, resonant voice echoed through the plaza, one that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Children of the Veil… you trespass where blood and memory converge. You think the pact can protect you, yet the Veil remembers its debt."
Lyra's eyes widened. She recognized that voice—not a living being, but the collective consciousness of the Forgotten, a force older than the city, older than history. It spoke with the certainty of inevitability, reminding them that they were trespassers in a world carved by vengeance.
The shadows converged, pressing closer, and the Veil within Lyra flared in response. Light erupted from her form, tendrils of shadow and fire intertwining, forming a barrier between them and the encroaching figures. The Forgotten recoiled, not with fear, but with curiosity, testing the boundaries of the pact, probing for weaknesses.
Kael shouted over the roar of the Veil's energy. "We can't hold them off forever! We need a plan!"
Lyra's mind raced, scanning the plaza, the surrounding structures, the very air above. Then she saw it—the Wounded Moon statue at the center of the plaza, its base etched with runes that pulsed faintly. "The statue," she shouted. "It's a conduit! If we channel the Veil through it, we can amplify our control—maybe even banish them!"
Kael's eyes flicked to the statue, then back at her. "And if we fail?"
Lyra clenched her teeth, stepping closer to the statue. "Then we die. Or worse. The Forgotten will devour everything. But we have no choice."
With a deep breath, Lyra extended her hands toward the runes. The Veil surged, responding to her will, flowing like liquid shadow into the carved symbols. The Forgotten shrieked, forms distorting as if the very fabric of their existence was being challenged.
But then, from the corner of her eye, Lyra noticed movement—a new figure, cloaked in darkness, taller and more commanding than the others, stepping from the shadows with deliberate grace. Its eyes glowed a deep crimson, and even amidst the chaos, it radiated authority.
Lyra's breath caught. This was no ordinary Forgotten—it was a leader, a harbinger of the vengeance that was to come. And it was coming for them.
The Veil within her surged, and Lyra realized with stark clarity that the fight beneath the Wounded Moon had only just begun.
Every shadow whispered, every corner seemed to hide betrayal, and the crescent moon hung above, wounding the night with its faint light, as if even the heavens mourned what was to come.
And then, the leader stepped closer, voice low and cold: "So, the pact has been forged… and yet you think yourselves ready. Foolish children. The Forgotten will rise, and the city will bleed again."
Lyra tightened her grip on her dagger, feeling the Veil pulse in response. "Let them come," she said, voice steady, even as the shadows pressed in. "We've survived this far. We survive still. And we will not yield."